The corridor sloped downward, subtly at first, then unmistakably so. Luna felt it in her calves before she saw the signs, the stone beneath her boots worn smooth not by age alone but by constant passage. This was not a forgotten wing. This was a place still used, still walked, still worked.
The smell reached her next.
Not rot. Not decay.
Food.
Warm fat, spices burned too long in oil, the metallic undertone of blood cooked just past raw. It curled into her lungs, invasive and wrong, stirring a flicker of unease she pushed down immediately. Vampires did not need kitchens. That meant these were not built for them.
That meant they were built for someone else.
